


The Letters

by the_mixed_up_files_of_me



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9569747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_mixed_up_files_of_me/pseuds/the_mixed_up_files_of_me
Summary: Victoria continues to write to her Lord M.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a Victoria/Melbourne fic before but here we are! Happy reading :)

Letters from Victoria become less frequent and shorter. She briefly recounts the joys of marriage, her happiness and occasionally, her concerns for the future of her nation. Melbourne always replies, equally brief, keeping away from the heavier matters that so often plague his mind. His chief concern is her happiness, it always will be so. He writes her of the orchids, the birds and the lighter subjects of the heart. He can hear the sound of her voice, as he goes through their old correspondence. Her voice, always airy, always regal, is reflected into her penmanship.

Letters shift from a personal note to a more detailed description of legal and political movements. She scarcely makes mention of Albert in their letters but Melbourne can feel her affection for him through her words. Singular phrases of _I_ changed into _we_. Small but noticeable. Not enough to be provoking but enough to gnaw away at the ever growing hole inside of himself.

Eventually she mentions her pregnancy. It shouldn't come as a shock, Melbourne had braced himself for this announcement since she wedded Albert. It doesn't lessen the blow or dull the ache in his heart. Motherhood would suit her finely and he could not imagine anyone else being more tuned into the needs of a young child, he had replied to her simply. She seemed pleased by his response, in her reply. 

Not as though he is _not_ pleased for her; he is. Melbourne is not a bitter man, he never has been and never will be. His unrequited affection for Victoria will not overcome his logical reasoning that the throne required an heir. He does what he knows best; he supports Victoria throughout every letter that she mourns over the ordeal of pregnancy, with gentle sentences that barely touch on what he truly wants to say to her.

To not imagine the possibilities of what might have been with her is impossible for him although he tries. To be there with her in person, to admire her glowing radiance every day, to awaken beside her every morning, to assume the dutiful and worshipful role as her husband...he occasionally permits himself to eclipse himself in these imaginations. Never does he dwell on them, however. Imagining what never would be or could be is too much to bear even for the strong of heart.

He waits for her letters, busies himself with his reading and studies. Her letters become more scattered as they begin to describe motherhood. He was correct in every way; motherhood does suit her beautifully. She writes about her daughter with vivid descriptions, to the point that it becomes more like poetry than a letter. Melbourne reads every word with care, letting himself disappear into a world where there was nothing but Victoria and her child and the vast oasis of regality.

Her letters grow more complicated as the weight of her responsibilities rests more heavily on her small shoulders every waking day. Poetry turns into anxiety. It does not take Melbourne long to come to the conclusion that she is informing him of things and concerns that no one, not even her husband or prime minister knows about. As only he knows how, Melbourne offers her the advice that he learned from so many years of being in centre of political upheaval.

The letters, the correspondence between them keeps going until Victoria sends a letter and gets no reply. Death comes as a friend, not an enemy, to him. The heartsickness had faded into a wistful daydream of what might have been. The rawest feelings of pain that he experienced in letting her go, now pass onto Victoria's heart. She bears the loss as a queen does; she holds her head high, she holds back the tears, she speaks of him with utmost respect and honour and does not let anyone know just how much she feels the gaping hole inside of herself.

She still expects to receive new letters from him. In her deepest dreams, the ones that feel more like fact than fiction, she dreams that the letters still come, that she can still read them and still be able to feel his presence through the paper. Her children, oblivious, ask her why she looks so sad when she's alone. Victoria runs an affectionate hand through their hair, kisses their cheeks and moves the subject along.

She stops wasting time on tears and puts the letters in a box in her desk. Time is something that she has little to spare of, but when she has a few seconds to herself, she pulls out his letters, runs her thin finger across the fine print. What might have been. Musing this more than she should, Victoria re-reads the letters until the print fades and the corners of the paper bends. She'll move on, she knows this. Clinging to the past is a fruitless waste of time that cannot be indulged, especially for a queen.

Victoria locks the letters in her desk after turning over the pages a final time. She is not a sentimental woman by nature, yet the pain and regret she feels by locking them up is overwhelming. Permitting herself to wallow in it a moment, let the emotions fill her eyes and course through her body, she steadies herself. Turns the key to lock the box and place it in her private desk drawer. It is not moving on, so much as it is healing.

_I shall never forget._

 


End file.
